Sleep Drug

I'll start off with the poem and go for explanations afterwards:

Sleep Drug

After the world is finally tired

of sleepless nights, tossing and coughing,

after we demand a change

of prescription, so powerful a click

will down us into dreams of

calm confined to our bedposts, after

couch-boys rise up in rage,

after insomniacs rally for their rights,

marching on the capital

past midnight, picketing, shouting, waking up

children from their slumber,

after defective-drug lawsuits,

after lab-coated quacks have been booted,

and the lobotomies sewn up

from testing how a frazzled brain shuts off

awareness of reality,

after the perfected pill ships to our door

to shut our eyes at will,

then we’ll come home eager to turn out the light,

worn out by our success;

we’ll lie rigid on a cheap bed and press

a switch to sleep peacefully at night.

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It's no wonder that this poem came to me late at night. I was lying in bed and I thought to myself - wouldn't it be nice to be able to press a button and go naturally into a healthy peaceful sleep (not just a strong sleeping pill)? And then I got to thinking about all that would probably have to go into such a device and I realized it probably would be a lot of not-so-great stuff - like rallying and testing (not that either of these things are bad in themselves, but they can be if taken to the extreme and used in areas that aren't actually essential). So, in writing this poem I try to take the reader step by step through the process. I was hoping that the series of images would get progressively shocking until, at the end, the reader can tell that there is a sarcastic nature to this poem. The message of it is something like: "we may want our lives to be easier, but how many people and things are we willing to trample on in order to achieve it?" One question I have for you, dear reader of this blog, is does it work? Are there some stages you can think of that I've missed? Is there anything that wasn't clear? Of course, I'm always interested if a poem is "good" or not, but this poem I feel is slightly political in nature (not referring to current politics specifically, but politics in general), which is not a subject that I normally treat.

So yeah, more than your thumbs up or thumbs down, I would love to hear your thoughts on the matter and how well the poem does what I want it to do.

Thanks for reading, 

your friendly bard.

Ring Out Wild Bells!

It's been a busy month (that's what they all say) but I've still been writing poetry even if I haven't posted anything since April 3rd. In fact, a couple night ago when I was in the middle of writing an important 6 page Spanish paper, I started singing a made up song about how tired I was, and then, suddenly, I found I liked a line from what I was singing and I wrote a poem from it.  I'm still not sure about the title (it seems a little sentimental, but all my other titles were just too odd, lame, or cryptic). I'm also not sure if the poem is fully understandable, but I get it and if you don't, let me know why or where or what threw you off so I can improve it. Without further ado, enjoy

The Music of Family

Cold. Winter. Weeks after my family came

together again and days before Christmas,

I heard bells ringing at 6 am. I didn’t know

where they hung, but I imagined them:

on the corner of Maple and Church,

floating over the orange dark like dreams,

the tower beneath, imagined, unseen

there, peeling a shivering metal song

where no one waited, climbed, or pulled

ropes thick enough to drag the sun

above the blanket my mother stitched

on the horizon, mumbling: “Go back

to bed; it’s too early to be happy.” In truth,

those were my words and my mother

shook the blanket and the darkness

off the bed like ashes from our fireplace.

Downstairs, the kitchen was full of dishes

in the jingle of breakfast; my father also

alert, sizzled something with pepper and butter;

my brother shuffled into the biggest chair

while my sisters blew their hair from side to side

like snow caught on an untraveled road.

Since when had everyone been awake

like this? Not one of us a child, anymore.

We were heralds of an ancient belief suddenly

returning: the whole morning, alive with music. 

Ballad of Bernie in Arizona

So I've written the first real adventure ballad of my poetry career and... in part it was fun, but it was also hard to keep my focus too. This is a 2nd draft (not much better than a first), and the meter still isn't perfect. It sounds best if you reach each stanza with a metronome - 4 beats for the first line , 3 beats for the 2nd, 4 beats for the 3rd, 3 beats for the 4th. But some of those are stretches. Anyway, hope you enjoy the ballad, especially 'cause a major purpose of this is to be enjoyable to read.

Ballad of Bernie in Arizona

Too early for traffic and perfect for speed,

he breathed in the day with a grin.

He gathered a group in the desolate waste

to take his scooter for a spin.

Soon Bernie was oblivious;

he burned his black bike’s gas.

Lead foot to the floor, past an empty stretch,

he roared up a mountain pass.

Behind, his biker gang rode on,

quick, yet reserved at the bends.

But Bernie, undaunted by the sheer cliff curves,

he ditched his group of friends.

One-hundred miles he had to go;

he didn’ wanna pull no stops,

so he whipped the corners with expert ease

and never noticed the cops.

Hidden in crags with crooked smiles,

the popo wanted to play,

but Bernie was oblivious

and simple sped away.

The scouts were called to keep in sight

this savage biker man,

but he covered each mile in twenty seconds flat;

they needed more of a plan.

When he whizzed into a many mile tunnel,

they thought they had him then,

but Bernie saw no danger in fun

and revved to two-hundred and ten.

The watchman missed him when he blinked an eye;

the radar swept like a clock.

But Bernie was oblivious

and flew out of view like a hawk.

Who was this gale-force freak of nature

tearing through the trail?

The cops were used to playing catch

and couldn’t bare to fail.

Helicopters took off to scan on high;

a jet plane was called upon.

All this for Bernie, oblivious

to what was going on.

All this for one man; all this for their pride;

they’d snare him no matter the cost.

But the mountains, strewn with turn-offs and twists

left the police feeling lost.

Cop cars, ‘copters, and planes scrambled ‘round

searching for some blur to chase,

but the motorbike man was nowhere in sight;

they hadn’t once seen his face.

They assembled for one final barricade,

no hope it would work out as planned.

And meanwhile Bernie, oblivious,

was jamming out to a band.

Riding headphones on and having a blast,

poor Bernie missed his road.

Set on turning ‘round, he topped one last hill

where his vehicle finally slowed:

for there was the roadblock, wide as the sky

and curious to his windswept eyes.

Bernie pulled up, oblivious,

and said “Hey! What’s up guys?”

Some wept, some laughed, some readied their guns

to answer as cops should

and Bernie spun ‘round like a hurricane

‘cause he finally understood.

Like a Meteor

I was going over some old papers I had and I found an old un-touched-up poem of mine that inspired me. I hope you enjoy the result.

Childhood Home

Like a meteor, I’m coming down tonight,

wading through the dark Sea of Time,

past pale lights that never die out.

I’ve come down to wish a new heart

inside my first home. The flickering

fireplace once warmed my blue toes

after I’d come in from watching

a long shower of stars. I couldn’t count

single sparks; they fizzled out faster

than my eyes could follow, as now

there are burning wet things falling

into the home’s cavernous shadow,

cast in the darkness like memories.

At peeled windows and parted blinds,

the neighbors peer into the empty lot

and wonder what light disappears

without sound, without notice.

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The original unposted poem that inspired this was written, I believe, when I went down to Savannah last October. A couple of lies in the poem include the following - it it technically not my first home, as I was born in Provo, Utah (but it is the first home I remember), I did not visit it at night, but in the middle of the day, I did not cry as I thought I might, and ¿who knows the neighbors did? Nevertheless, I feel that this poem reaches, or tries to reach, the heart of the feelings of revisiting a well-loved home, now vacant and lifeless. I enjoyed writing the poem and I hope you've enjoyed reading it, especially if you've ever had a similar experience. Another poem that I have to write for class will be posted soon so... stay posted (pun intended).